


A Turn of the Tide

by Tarpeia



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Not Canon Compliant - Movie 2: Fantastic Beasts: The Crimes of Grindelwald, POV Albus Dumbledore, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:40:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25167850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarpeia/pseuds/Tarpeia
Summary: 1939, AU. After years of painful separation, Albus Dumbledore receives the chance to be reunited with the one he loves.
Relationships: Albus Dumbledore/Gellert Grindelwald
Comments: 4
Kudos: 44





	A Turn of the Tide

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Drowning Souls](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17934617) by [almanera4](https://archiveofourown.org/users/almanera4/pseuds/almanera4), [Tarpeia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarpeia/pseuds/Tarpeia). 



Albus walks through the enchanted barrier as if passing from the world of dreams into reality. His heart is pounding, but the sight of Dieter is before him, comforting and solid like the wizard himself. He gazes at the kind features, now slightly lined with worry, at the man’s familiar blond hair and stocky figure, and while so many years have passed, he knows his friend’s essence has remained intact: caring, considerate and loyal to the core. There are no adequate words to express the fondness that brims inside him, rekindled on the night Dieter sought him out.

It was an evening like too many others, spent in the silence of his office. A voice tore him from the towering pile of scholarly assignments that never felt large enough: a voice he had not heard since the previous century, but which stood out more clearly in his memory than all but one.

“I’m sorry to intrude, Albus.”

And his close friend was there, though present only in spirit: an old form of magic taught at Durmstrang, and one that took great courage. They had a mere moment to converse, but those minutes sufficed to knock down the walls time and distance had erected between them. Shaken with emotion, arms rising in vain to touch the other wizard’s astral projection, Albus confessed what had happened on the fateful day of Ariana’s demise. He assured Dieter he had never put his faith in the press and its attempts to vilify Gellert’s movement, _for the Greater Good_ , despite the campaign’s increasingly tragic repute. He also professed the most intimate truth of all: that he loved Gellert with all his heart, that he had not stopped loving him for a second. Eyes glistening with emotion of his own, Dieter promised in return to put an end to their separation and bring Albus to Gellert’s retreat.

Now that they have reunited, free at last to exchange an embrace, a part of Albus cannot help but reflect how fitting it is that they have chosen a cemetery for a meeting place. Their past lives are over, and so, he hopes, is their suffering; all of it can be laid to rest in this peaceful churchyard under the pine trees. There is determination in his step and breathless excitement as each stride brings him closer to Gellert. They pass through protective wards and into a back-garden, where an unexpected guardian greets them: a golden dog, who bounces joyfully towards Dieter before coming to sniff at Albus, tail waggling. Aki, as the German wizard calls the affectionate animal, permits the stranger to pet her, but most of her attention is for her master. Quietly, Dieter moves on to lead Albus into the deserted corridors. The further they go, the more aware Albus becomes of the layers of his life peeling away and leaving him bare, as though he is seventeen again.

The final door slides open, and his voice is stolen away. Gellert resembles a sun deity. There is majestic grace in his athletic figure, poised at the desk; charisma and power imbue his magical aura; the beauty of his face is flawless. This is not all Albus sees: he can discern the man behind the king’s lustre, the one he pledged himself to years ago. He cannot look away from the cherished features; cannot draw a breath for happiness. He sees shock flicker in the sapphire eyes while Gellert rises to his feet, and this shock, in turn, gives way to—could it be?—fear.

Albus’s dreams of this moment are discarded in a wink; the glorious reality eclipses them by far. His love is before him, and nothing can separate them again. And yet, Gellert regards him with caution, the Englishman’s name a hesitant flutter on his lips. Even as Albus steps forward, releasing long-withheld words of tenderness and delight, he is met with an air that is almost vulnerable, as if his arrival is believed to presage an attack.

Ariana’s memory surges between them. Her ghost, Albus slowly comes to realise, has been all too corporeal for Gellert until it fused with his conscience. Wherever he went, the spectre of her death followed. He has never forgiven himself for her fate.

Understanding expands in him with painful clarity, and Albus brings his hands to the other wizard’s face, his fingers bestowing gentle caresses. He wastes no time in absolving Gellert of his guilt, claiming sole responsibility for the unfortunate accident. Again and again, he insists there was no ill intent in deflecting the Killing Curse, that Gellert has never been to blame, that he bears no part in what was the combined result of Albus’s ineptitude and Aberforth’s prejudice. Reaffirming his devotion, Albus tells him of his lifelong search and explains the way every decision he has ever made was meant to bring him closer to his lover.

When Gellert’s arms rise in a tentative embrace, it is as if he has half-forgotten the motion. The fear in his eyes has faded to be replaced with consternation and wonder. Patently, he struggles to reconcile these declarations to the beliefs that have held him prisoner for decades, and Albus wonders whether _he_ has been Gellert’s Boggart all along: a terrible, vengeful vision of himself, come to exact a payment for Ariana’s demise. The thought very nearly steals the floor from beneath his feet, but he forces himself to stay upright and allow the blond wizard the space that he desperately needs. Gellert’s entire convictions are being uprooted, and the process is distressing to watch; all Albus can do is stay by his side, ready to provide his support.

A knock reaches them, soft and intrusive at once. With a wordless apology, Gellert opens the door, and Albus catches a glimpse of green silk, accompanied by a murmur of French. The woman is enveloped in a night robe and perfume, her black hair down, her body armed for seduction. She draws a breath; inevitably, though, her gaze falls onto Albus. For a single, unguarded instant, perplexity widens her eyes; her power of speech is lost in disappointment. He can tell she knows his name, just as he knows hers. It requires no imagination to divine what it is she desires. In a heartbeat, her mask is back in place, but to no avail: Gellert is firm in his request that the important matter she has come to share—a pretext that deceives no one—wait until morning. She does not resist casting an inscrutable glance in Albus’s direction as she leaves; he, however, is already aware he has gained a rival, if not a deadly enemy.

His innermost feelings aside, he cannot possibly judge Gellert for having indulged in occasional pleasure while they lived apart. Even if the Englishman finds it inconceivable to give his body without giving his soul, many can divide love and lust. He can feel that, in his heart, Gellert has never betrayed him. No, what alarms him most is his lover’s obliviousness to this witch’s nature.

There are facts to be discovered about the Rosiers if only one knows where to look. The England-based branch of the family has attended Hogwarts, and he happens to have taught Vinda’s nephew. Currently in his third year, the boy has not yet acquired a polished façade nor learned to shield his mind. He is still to shed his ever-present smirk and grow adept at concealing his thirst for gold and control. But his Boggart already takes the shape of a bottle of Veritaserum. He is becoming better at imitating superficial charm. And through flashes of covert Legilimency, Albus has seen enough of Rosier Manor’s bleak secrets to fill a nightmare: the boy’s younger sister bullied into half-insanity, generations of tortured house-elves, centuries of parasitical scheming at other wizards’ expense. Vinda herself may be young, but she is already a fully-formed Rosier with training in Occlumency and unrestrained ambition. A political radical if ever there was one, she longs for a pure-blood world. It is not a coincidence that ever since she joined Gellert’s circle, his campaign has been spiralling out of control, the casualties multiplying. And _he_ is the one the public condemns for it.

All of this, though, they can discuss later, towards daybreak. This night is theirs alone, and all that matters to Albus now is to comfort and encourage the other man. They hold hands while they speak of Gellert’s vision, of plans gone awry and a goal that remains as remote as it was forty years ago. They take in each other’s words and inflexions, their expressions, the magic that pulsates beneath their skin. Something about the blond wizard feels different. He is not broken, far from it, yet the Dark magic in his aura contains a nuance Albus does not recognise. It is like a subtle new note that renders the entire chord vaguely dissonant. Something is amiss, and it goes beyond Gellert’s soul-wrenching loneliness, which mirrors his own.

Before Albus can register it, a tear escapes and slides down his cheek. Too late to hide it, though the last thing he meant to do was steer attention towards himself. But gentle and caring—they always have been—Gellert’s fingers rise to brush it away, and Albus leans into the touch, taking slow, calming breaths. It is true, he is happy for the first time since their separation; only, the years they have spent apart burn inside him, and he cannot help but mourn them. So much time has been lost on suffering—time they ought to have spent together, and which they can never regain. They have the future, and it is everything the English wizard will ever wish for; but the past needs to be grieved for before they can leave it behind.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, pressing his face against Gellert’s palm. “I just wish I had found you sooner. I missed you so much.”

A glimmer in the sapphire eyes responds to his admission: a blend of sorrow and tenderness. Yet a glimmer is all it is, not the storm of emotion that threatens to break through Albus’s composure. For a wild moment, the latter asks himself whether his lover’s feelings have been muted. Then he sits a little straighter. Ariana’s sweet face comes to mind again: her death has haunted Gellert ever since that summer—more so perhaps than it has plagued Albus—its memory leaving constant guilt and fear of revenge in its wake. He reminds himself of Dieter’s warning during their brief astral conversation: “You should know, Gellert is in a very bad company. These deaths… they are not his doing.” He thinks of his lover’s inability to sense the Rosier woman’s ulterior motives and tell apart friend from foe. Lifting his hand to the blond man’s cheek, he probes the discordant Dark magic in the air. The answer is there. Something _is_ amiss: a spell has robbed Gellert of the intensity of his emotions.

He does not shiver, does not make a sound or pull away; deep down, though, he goes cold. Is this why his beloved has evaded him for so long, not once caving in to their mutual longing? Is this what their separation has led to? While one of them pushed himself to exist through the agony with the help of his work and the hope for a reunion, the other one attempted to amputate the part of his soul that bore his love and pain. And how can one live with magically blunted feelings without losing hold of intuition and sound judgment?

The past falls into place in the most harrowing way. Dark magic would, of course, have permitted Gellert to repress his emotions at any point after their parting. Is it the pain that drove him to such despair, or is it the fright? Did he mean to protect himself, fearful for his life, or did this precaution conceal something more devious: an unconscious desire for self-chastisement? Albus suspects the truth combines each of those reasons and that in his heartache, young Gellert may not have comprehended the spell’s full implications. It has now been years since he has lived with the void in his soul: a state more terrifying by far than Albus’s exacerbated torment. There is no taming the most subtle forms of the Dark Arts, and Gellert is not aware how deeply his unnatural absence of feeling affects his impression of the people around him—individuals with hidden agendas and endless schemes.

Understanding lights the blond wizard’s gaze, succeeded by mortification. He knows that Albus knows; he half-expects to be condemned. Albus draws closer, places gentle hands on either side of his face, his voice turning more urgent, more passionate.

“Gellert, you never need to fear me. I would rather give up my life and magic than hurt you. Let me help you. I will not leave your side again… if you will have me.”

He presses a kiss on his lover’s hands before enfolding him, their heartbeats now united. His fingers cannot tire of stroking the golden locks; his chest is overflowing with tenderness. A new resolve has settled in without a need for expressing it: he will assist Gellert in freeing himself from the Dark spell. They have all the time they require to debate it, and gradually, they can recover the full strength of his emotions. He will become capable of enjoying life once more. Together, they are whole.

There is more to this: Albus can see it plainly as their embrace tightens and their lips graze each other’s skin, inevitably seeking to meet. If he is to protect Gellert from the vultures around them, the change must begin in Albus himself. Unwillingly or not, he is to blame for the manner in which they were ripped apart: his secrecy, his tendency to underestimate those closest to him, his failure to argue his case with his brother, all of it has contributed to their plight. If Gellert is guilty of believing himself to be always correct, as well as harbouring an excessive sense of responsibility—two traits that are being shaken tonight—then Albus’s flaws are opposite: he was reserved and ineffectual when it mattered most. He cannot repeat the errors of his past. If leaving his shy, scholarly self behind and becoming a warrior is what it takes, he will do this and more.

When morning is upon then, he looks up, fascinated, at the rays of sun peeking through the clouds. The greenery around the house is fragrant; it gleams with raindrops. Birds twitter in the air. He never noticed it had rained during the night.

In the north, Hogwarts will have awoken at this hour. His absence is about to be noted, and they will come into his office, only to find a parting letter and a stack of detailed notes on his desk. There will be much commotion in the staff room, not to mention in the student body; he can almost picture the disbelief on Armando Dippet’s benign face or the excitement in Horace Slughorn’s voice. It is possible the Potions Master will become the new Deputy Headmaster—if so, Albus is genuinely happy for him. Whoever is chosen to teach Transfiguration is welcome to peruse his course schedule, his records and his evaluation of every student. More likely than not, they will ignore his word of caution on Tom Riddle the moment they set eyes on his charmingly modest smile. As for the remedial lessons Albus has promised to a group of students, he can never deliver them, nor provide the career advice sessions and the references most seventh years have requested. It is a part of the price to pay.

This, he reflects, is why the Sorting Hat meant to send him to Hufflepuff. Had he been a true Gryffindor, he would have aspired to serve the right and noble cause, no matter the personal cost; perhaps he would even have despised Slytherins for their focus on self-preservation. As it is, his loyalty lies with Gellert alone—Gellert, who would have been the crowning jewel of Slytherin House if only he had attended Hogwarts. As for Ravenclaws, they would shudder at the way Albus has abandoned academia overnight. For one fact cannot be denied: no wizarding school is likely to hire him again, not until Gellert’s reputation has been cleared. He has burned this bridge in stealing away, and accepting this proves easier than he could have imagined. Hogwarts is a small universe in itself: it can carry on without him and never feel the loss. Gellert needs him; they need each other to be complete.

A council meeting awaits them in the morning hours. Side by side, they walk into the largest room, Albus a respectful step behind Gellert. They are both expected: it is manifest in the carefully blank faces that turn towards them, in the wizards’ alert postures and their silence imbued with curiosity. Dieter alone beams with happiness, stroking the golden dog. His mind shielded, Albus responds to the introductions and returns handshakes. Certain members of the circle are eager to leave a favourable impression and find their way into his good graces; others show reticence in the way they measure him up and exchange glances. A single curt nod comes from Gellert’s personal bodyguard, a formidable Asian wizard by the name of Li Wei, though Albus can sense that nothing escapes his black eyes. The Rosier woman keeps herself at a distance, the least conspicuous of them and the most dangerous of all.

This group of wizards and witches is a nest of snakes with a hierarchy of their own and an intricate web of agendas. Albus’s appearance has disturbed their established order, and they will strike the second he reveals a vulnerable spot; he understands this much as he sits by Gellert’s side, listening closely to the latter’s plans. He speaks only when spoken to; instead, he watches the others, scrutinises their magical auras, reaches out to examine their minds, most of which he finds sealed against intrusion. Aside from Dieter’s distinctly Light energies and several individuals with no defined affinity, the council consists of Dark wizards. This in itself is not alarming, not as long as they are devoted to their leader’s cause. The task at hand is to unmask all the traitors. Albus does not need words to share his thoughts with Gellert: flashes of Legilimency are just as telling, and their minds connect naturally, as they did in the days of their youth.

No sooner is the meeting concluded than a sound of unearthly beauty fills the air: a phoenix song. It is Fawkes, coming to join Albus in their new home. His melody is gentle, one of hope and revival, and it reverberates in their souls, as if born from within. The assembly is transfixed with this rare sensation. Gellert stands still, though his shoulders are relaxed and his eyes full of half-forgotten wonder, as are Dieter’s. Most of the wizards in attendance fidget uneasily—none so much as Vinda Rosier, whose composure finally gives way under agitation. What very few know is that the phoenix song offers comfort and courage to those of pure intentions while striking fear in the hearts of the wicked. It is Li Wei’s reaction that surprises and touches Albus the most: emotion overwhelms the impassive man, coaxing tears from his eyes, along with the whisper of a name.

The next instant, Fawkes flies in with one mighty swoop of his wings. He circles over the council, leaving golden sparks in his trail, and perches himself on Albus’s shoulder. The spell is broken only by the dog’s excited barks: Aki is impatient to sniff at the flaming bird, to examine him.

“Fawkes, my familiar,” Albus explains with a caress on the crimson feathers. “This is Gellert, whom I have so often spoken of.”

A soft cry, and the phoenix rises again, this time to land on Gellert’s arm. They look at each other, and the sun re-emerges from behind the clouds to tint them both with gold. There is something sacred about the sight: it might be Fawkes’s acceptance of the German wizard, or the hope in the latter’s eyes, in spite of the Dark magic that has dulled his feelings; it could even be the combined majesty of this regal man and the magical bird. Whatever the reason, conviction spreads inside Albus, as warm and mellow as the glow of Light magic. They are whole again. Everything will be all right.

**Author's Note:**

> This story could not have been written without my dear friend, almanera, whose ideas and advice have been priceless. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
